


Just Reckless Enough

by AoiTsukikage



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 18:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AoiTsukikage/pseuds/AoiTsukikage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>living isn't the same as surviving, and Feuilly’s starting to see just exactly what the difference is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Reckless Enough

**Author's Note:**

> So a while ago I’d written [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/911603) in which Feuilly and Bahorel somehow have a bus that they drive around in. This started out as a story about how they acquired said bus and turned into…something else in the end. Warnings for implied sexual content, alcohol consumption, smoking, profanities…you know, the usual ;) Also because I obviously need to pimp myself out more, my tumblr is [here](http://apolloenjolras.tumblr.com) for anybody interested.

They didn’t steal the bus.

Truth be told he’s not sure _why_ everybody assumes they stole the bus, but they didn’t steal the bus, and while part of him is really starting to suspect the person they’d bought the bus off of _might_ have stolen it, _they didn’t steal the bus._

Yes, he was kind of a shifty looking man, but Bahorel had gotten an idea into his head that they obviously needed a bus and since Feuilly had no car of his own, well, a bus wasn’t unwelcome. 

Plus, as the other man had told him later, there was enough space to work in and sell his artwork, and a place to store it for travel, and all of those were huge pluses. 

So, they’ve got a bus. 

-

“What exactly are we doing with it?” he asks once the man has left them alone with the keys and, well, the bus, and Bahorel shrugs and slaps his hand against the side of it, the peeling yellow paint flaking off under his fingers as he beams at Feuilly. 

“Who cares?  You should paint it.”

“I paint pictures, I don’t paint, well, _buses,”_ Feuilly protests, because a bus is a lot bigger than a piece of canvas and honestly, where is he going to get the money to buy enough paint to cover a bus?  “Plus I’ve got nowhere to park it, and…”

“You worry too much.  Live a little,” Bahorel elbows him and Feuilly wants to tell him that being hasty and impulsive is not how he operates, thank you very much, but his friend is already up the steps and inside the bus, scouting around, and Feuilly rolls his eyes and wonders if he can convince the other man to look after it and find a place to keep it.

Because he’s not going to.

-

Maybe he’s just exceptionally weak-willed, but of course he ends up parking the bus behind his shithole of a place (hey, rent is cheap and there’s a working lock on the door so he can’t complain) and hopes that nobody decides it’s worth wrecking. 

Which, for whatever reason, they don’t.  Maybe they figure it’s so run down it’s not worth their time, but the bus stays in remarkably untouched condition and except for the few times he takes it out just to see how it handles (which of course is ‘not well at all but at least it runs’), it doesn’t move from its spot in the alley. 

That is, until the day Bahorel shows up carrying a duffel bag and a cooler and tells Feuilly in no uncertain terms that they’re going on a road trip and that bus had better have gas in it.

-

“Don’t you have classes?” is the first thing Feuilly can think of to ask once they’re bouncing down the highway, fingers gripping the seat because he has no earthly idea how this tub of junk can even _make_ the speed limit, much less exceed it at the rate that Bahorel’s currently driving. 

“Trust me, it’s not the first time I’ve missed them,” Bahorel turns to wink at him and then looks back at the road, the winding turns leading them on an eventual slope downward toward the coastline. 

“Where are we going?” he tries then, because it isn’t as if he’s got deadlines or school or even a steady work schedule to hurry back for, but he’s not the type to just…take a trip out of nowhere and he’s understandably concerned. 

“You’ll love it,” is all the older man has to say, and Feuilly sighs and sinks into one of the seats, wincing when they hit a particularly rough bump and he bounces like he’s sitting on a trampoline (although the landing is decidedly not as soft or, well, cushioned as that would be).

All he knows is that they’re heading for the ocean, and for a fleeting moment he thinks that maybe that information is enough. 

-

He’s not quite as complacent once they arrive, the beach almost deserted and the wind chill as they sit on a couple of driftwood tree trunks the ocean has thrown up onto the shore during some winter storm or another.  He wishes he had coffee, or something warm, and while the bottle of…he sniffs at it…rum?  Maybe?  That Bahorel shoves into his hands is a poor substitute for actual heat, it’s all he’s got right now. 

“You’re quiet, which means that brain of yours is working too hard.  Talk to me,” the man all but commands and Feuilly sets down the bottle, digging it into the sand a little so it won’t topple over. 

“Nothing.  Just…this isn’t me,” he laughs ruefully, scratching the back of his neck as Bahorel gives him a scathing look.  Fundamentally they’re so different, and he knows that maybe he needs to just…let go a little more often, but he’s lived his life being so careful and cautious that to see somebody with such an appalling lack of self-preservation is confusing to him. 

“I know.  But you have to try it anyway, right?” Bahorel asks, downing half of his bottle in one gulp.  “I mean, what’s the point of living if you’re not squeezing every bit of life you can from it?”

“Trust me, I’ve lived enough for both of us,” Feuilly mutters, conversation reaching down into the sand and picking up a broken seashell, turning it in his fingers and watching the iridescent sheen on the inner walls change colors as he moves it around in the daylight. 

“You’ve _survived_ enough for both of us,” Bahorel corrects him and Feuilly shrugs, knowing that the distinction is definitely valid.  “Look, I’m not saying you need to turn as reckless as me, but you know…is it really that bad to just…take off and go to the ocean?” he looks dead serious and Feuilly can’t really say he’s not enjoying the break from worrying about his home and food and money and whether he’ll have enough each month to pay the rent, so he nods, bowing his head as the sea breeze ruffles his hair. 

When he looks up again there’s something wild in Bahorel’s eyes, something that tells Feuilly he’s got a little more living left to do, and even with the rum in his system his brain’s still piecing everything out until he decides that it’s too much work and just…turns it off. 

Maybe if he lets himself fall this time, he can trust Bahorel to catch him. 

And maybe he’s just reckless _enough_ to do it. 

-

“I feel like there should be some sort of cliché attached to this,” he says later, waving his hand in the brisk air as Bahorel grabs his wrist and stills his movements, slotting a cigarette between his fingers before letting go. 

Feuilly takes a drag of it gratefully, finally understanding the whole need for a post-coital smoke (not that he was a virgin by any means, but well, having sex with somebody he’s got an existing relationship with isn’t exactly a common occurrence for him) and Bahorel snorts, shoulders shaking as he laughs. 

“Yes, the age-old ‘we bought a bus and drove it to the sea and fucked between the seats’ story.  Jehan will be writing poems about it in no time,” he sighs overdramatically and Feuilly snickers, feeling loose and relaxed and more than a little confused, but it’s…almost a good feeling.

“Mm, he’d find it romantic,” Feuilly sits up and pulls the blanket around his shoulders, knowing he probably looks debauched and unkempt, but Bahorel’s one of those people that can look completely composed and unruffled even after what they’ve done. 

“Probably,” he concedes, leaning back on his hands and letting his own cigarette dangle from his lips.  “So?  Still regret coming?”

“Well, I have to admit, I didn’t realize _that_ was part of the package,” he shivers a little as the air starts to hit his sweat-soaked skin, wondering where his bottle of rum got off to because he’s got a feeling he might need it soon. 

“It isn’t for everybody,” Bahorel replies, almost cryptically, and Feuilly looks at him for a long moment before deciding that it’s not worth obsessing over. 

“Well, good to know if we ever decide to bring the others out here they won’t all be getting the royal treatment,” he gets to his feet and wraps the blanket as firmly as he can around himself, looking out the window.  “It’s going to be dark soon.  If we want to make it home before the sun sets we’d better leave.”

“Why bother?  Nobody’s going to find us out here, this beach has been deserted every time I’ve come here during the week.” Bahorel definitely looks like he’s not planning on moving anytime soon. 

“Did you actually pack something other than booze in that cooler?” Feuilly asks then, because if they’re camping out here some food would be appreciated, and he pulls open the lid to find that yes, the other man’s thought ahead far more than Feuilly’s given him credit for. 

“There’s sandwiches for tonight and some granola bars for breakfast tomorrow; I wasn’t planning on kidnapping you and then not feeding you, you know,” he’s grinning like this is the most hilarious thing ever and Feuilly can’t help but smile back, straightening up in order to stare out at the ocean again. 

“It’s going to be cold tonight,” he says vaguely, because it’s not like they can keep the bus running all night and there’s only so many blankets, but Bahorel shrugs and reaches to grab his wrist, tugging him down so they’re beside each other.

“Well, you know how they say sharing body heat is the best way to stay warm, right?” his voice is low and his eyes are dark and Feuilly’s thinking that, okay, maybe he’d assumed this was only supposed to be a one-time thing but…

“They do say that,” it comes out a little less assured than he would have liked but Bahorel doesn’t seem to mind, pulling him in for a kiss that’s warm and smoke-flavored and already familiar, and he knows that they’re not going anywhere tonight. 

“So.  No more excuses?” he’s smirking in a way that implies he’s not ready to hear them even if there are. 

Feuilly thinks about the bottles of alcohol still out in the sand that they should really bring in, he thinks about how maybe they should eat something _first_ before they fall into this again, he thinks about how just twelve hours ago he never would have imagined his day going like this, and he thinks about how strangely…content he is with _all of it_ and can only smile in return. 

“None.”

“Good,” Bahorel pulls him close again and he decides to stop thinking altogether.  


End file.
